Anger Management
by Jad fic
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy locked up alone in Grimmauld Place was just asking for trouble. As far as everyone else is concerned, it was bound to happen eventually; Creevey's thrilled, and Snape's not pleased.


**Notes**: This fic was original titled 'Shit Happens' - it was the first H/D fic I'd ever written, and intended as more of a drabble, so hence the complete lack of a decent title. I've gone and given it a proper title because people seem to actually like it, for some reason.

Written for slythindor100 lj's Challenge #46. Rough sex and gratuitous use of the word 'fuck'. Oh, and Colin Creevey. That boy should always come with a warning label.

* * *

**Anger Management**

oOo

'You're such an arrogant pillock, Potter!'

'Better than being a spoiled git, Malfoy!'

'You think you're so much better than the rest of us—'

'At least I don't go running to my father every—'

The moment the word 'father' is out of Harry's mouth, Draco hits him. Harry is expecting it, and he dodges, so that Draco's fist hits his shoulder instead of his jaw, then swings to return the blow. But despite losing the Snitch to Harry for six years running, Draco is a talented Seeker; he catches Harry's wrist mid-strike and throws him against the wall.

This is not a rare occurrence. Once NEWTs were over and Draco became, under Snape's wing, a spy for the Order, he began spending more and more time at Grimmauld Place. As Grimmauld Place was the only place in the country besides Hogwarts safe enough to shelter Harry, this had meant that the two of them saw a lot more of each other over the following eight months. Some were optimistic that, after the unexpected revelation of Snape's true motives for killing Dumbledore (protecting Draco) and the Sectumsempra incident, Draco and Harry may have grown up a little and maybe, just maybe, become friends.

To that the both of them may as well have said, 'At the risk of sounding negative, fuck no.'

During their time together at Hogwarts, Draco and Harry had never been properly allowed to settle their fights—someone had always broken them up before they could kill each other, or shown up in the nick of time to prevent something irreversible from occurring. It's been over half a year since they all obtained their NEWTs, but the two are yet to have had a decent go at one another—oh, there's always the snide remarks, the vulgarity, the shoving, the sneering, the occasional punch that gets through—but someone's always been there to pull them apart, disarm them before any curses are cast, and or lock them in separate rooms until they 'cool down' enough to act civil.

...always, until tonight.

There's a huge raid on a Death Eater hideout in Sussex tonight. Harry wasn't allowed to go because, well, he's Harry Potter and he has to kill Voldemort, and they can't risk him getting hit by a random curse on a stroke of bad luck. Draco couldn't go because of his spying, but as he doesn't want to help kill the Order either, he's had to lie low these past few days. Everyone else available, however, has been gone since teatime. It's now eleven o'clock, and they've received one owl saying 'Everything's shaping up, we'll be back soon!', but it was six hours with Draco Malfoy and no blood had been shed, and Harry knew it couldn't last.

In all honesty, Harry thinks they'll end up killing each other. They very well could have earlier—Draco had seized the vase on the nearby mantle and hurled it at him, spraying water and dead flowers all over the floor, and Harry had retaliated with a Jelly-legs Jinx. The moment he pulled out his wand, things started getting ugly.

The living room of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black lies in complete ruin. There are black marks on the walls from curses that missed, everything breakable has been broken, shattered, cracked or otherwise destroyed; at one point, somehow, the sofa was set on fire, and the smell of burnt expensive silk still lingers in the room as the young men circle one another, bedraggled and bruised but apart from that, no worse for wear.

Harry feels the most alive he has in _months_—since coming here, expecting to fight Dark wizards, and instead being shut up and protected like Sirius—and the anger, the nerves, the sheer _frustration _at everything that's been welling up for months suddenly explodes out of him, and there is nothing to take it out on except for Draco.

This is why Harry rushed forward, wand be damned, and now has Draco up against the wall by his neck, knee jammed painfully in his groin. This is why he's going to snap every single one of Draco's ribs between his thumbs and index fingers. This is why he's going to flatten that pointy fucking nose for good with his bloody knuckles. This is why Draco seizes him hard by the hair, jerks his head back, and sinks his teeth into the side of Harry's neck.

Whoa, back up.

Harry gasps and shoves Draco's shoulders back hard; Draco's teeth leave his neck as his head snaps back against the wall with a muffled _thud _and the blonde curses, trying to pull away—but Harry holds him firm, palms flat against his shoulders, waiting for Draco to look at him, which Draco is absolutely refusing to do.

'Potter,' he says finally. 'I—' he swallows thickly, then finishes with, 'fuck.'

Draco finally looks up at Harry, who is briefly mystified because he's never seen Draco Malfoy look sheepish before; there's a faint pink flush blooming out of his blue collar and accenting his cheeks, and he feels Draco's shoulders dither slightly under his touch. Then Harry notices something else—this Something Else is pressing against his knee, which is still jammed between Draco's legs.

Draco braces his hands on Harry's shoulders and forcibly pushes him away. Harry stumbles only momentarily before retaliating, slamming Draco back into the wall, seizing him by his hair and kissing him violently on the mouth.

The sudden thrill of rigidness in Draco's tall frame lasts only a moment before he relents, opening his mouth against Harry's and shifting his hips so Harry can get the top of his thigh and his own hip between Draco's legs. After a tiny delay caused by the realisation of how incredibly good that feels, Harry's mind clears enough for him to discover that Draco's not the only hot and desperate one here, because his own erection is grinding into the joint of Draco's hip. Harry growls into the kiss and shoves his hip against Draco's groin forcefully, possibly painfully, and Draco bites down hard on his tongue in retaliation.

Harry bites Draco's lower lip, then his jaw, and then drags his teeth down Draco's throat, earning a sharp gasp and a curse in response. Draco's hands are clawing his shoulders; Harry, panting heavily into Draco's neck, manages to croak out, 'Upstairs.'

'Now?' Draco hisses—Harry's not sure _why _Draco's bothering to lower his voice, as they're alone in the house. 'But they'll—the owl—any minute—' Harry tugs Draco's head down by his collar and kisses him again—a hard, lips-on-lips only kiss, with a flash of teeth—and grinds hard into his hip again. Draco swallows. 'Now,' he agrees, nodding.

Somehow, they make it upstairs. Harry doesn't remember how; he's got a fair number of bruises and splinters, but he's unsure if those are from before the incident against the wall, after they crashed through the bedroom door, or somewhere in between. They've also ended up completely naked; Harry doesn't remember exactly how that happened, either, but there's a hazy memory of tugging and tearing and frustrated, impatient scrabbling (at some point, a muttered '_Diffindo_' from both had put an end to that problem). Somewhere in the chaos, Harry has also lost his glasses, but that really doesn't matter, because he can see Draco just fine this close up.

Dimly, Harry wonders why he had them bother to come upstairs at all, because they're not even using the bed.

'Fuck,' Draco says for the umpteenth time. He's got a bloody lip and a black eye, and his hair is an absolute mess, and Harry doesn't think he's ever seen the bastard look more fetching in all seven and a half years of knowing him. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck. Potter—_fuck_.'

Harry's still got him pinned to the wall. He's discovered that he quite likes pinning this pillock to the wall, and vows to start doing it more often. He likes pinning him to the wall because Draco fights back; he kicks, he bites, he shoves his knee in nasty places, he claws with nails Harry wasn't aware he had, and sweet Merlin, it's turning him on. He also thinks Draco enjoys _being _pinned to the wall, because even though he fights back, trying to turn the tables, calling Harry a wide variety of less than complimentary things, saying 'fuck' about twenty times a minute, he hasn't once, since the incident downstairs, told Harry to stop.

The two-year-old scar from the bathroom is still there; it's a faint, pink, diagonal line down Draco's chest, and Harry follows it with his tongue, earning another gasp of 'Fuck' and Draco's hand grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking hard, but in an encouraging way. As the scar tapers off, Harry switches from squatting to sitting on his knees, and begins ghosting the gossamer hairs just under Draco's bellybutton—hey, who knew, the prick _is _a natural blonde—with a combination of lips, teeth and tongue that sends the hand in his hair twisting and tugging with a new urgency.

Technically, Harry's never done this before, though he's thought about it, of course—really, what bloke _hasn't_—and he's never had it done _to _him, for sure. But then, Harry had never battled a Basilisk or a Hungarian Horntail before, and he hadn't done too shabby there, either. With those for comparison, he muses, this will be a piece of cake.

Besides, Draco's anything but complaining as Harry takes his cock in his hand, and runs his tongue along the underside of it. In fact, unless he's mistaken, Draco just _moaned _his name—his actual given name—and to gain that sort of reaction, he must be doing _something _right. Something awkwardly, shamefully, brilliantly right, and the hand in his hair tightens painfully as Harry's tongue does it again, pausing at the tip until a strangled noise and a tug from Draco convince him to take the head in his mouth.

There's a dull _thud _again as Draco's head snaps back against the wall. The hand in his hair isn't as painfully tight anymore, but it's just as firm, following—sometimes guiding—the movements of his mouth along Draco's cock. Bracing one hand on Draco's hips and sitting up higher, Harry angles his head to the side and sucks down as much as he can without gagging, earning himself another moan and a proceeding '_Fuck_' as he withdraws, kissing the tip as he pulls away. Draco's too close to the edge, and Harry doesn't intend to get the bastard off on his own tonight.

Draco, clearly disgruntled, groans and attempts to tug Harry's head back, but Harry stands up, pausing on his way to Draco's neck to bite his shoulder. Draco tilts his head back easily now, no longer fighting. Almost in praise, Harry kisses his neck gently, keeping his teeth to himself. He slowly strokes his own erection; he can feel Draco's against the back of his knuckles as he does. His other hand takes Draco's hip, and starts to pull it up, but fingers closing around his wrist still him.

'This, uh,' Draco pants thickly somewhere by his ear. He pauses to swallow; Harry licks his Adam's apple when it moves. 'Might be, ah, easier—you know. Lying down.'

Harry grins into his neck. Draco's nervous, his voice is practically quavering, and Harry thinks that it's this alone that's made him go from wanting to tear the bastard apart to moving to his mouth as he does now, kissing hard, slowly and thoroughly, while taking him by the hips and manoeuvring him to the bed. Draco pulls the sheets aside but they don't get under them as Harry positions himself over Draco, on his knees between his legs, mouths still locked together.

There's something picking at the back of Harry's mind. It's been there this whole time, growing more and more insistent, telling him that this is a bad idea, that he's going down a road here he isn't prepared for, and saying something about his having a girlfriend, but Harry's done a good job of ignoring it. It starts getting even _more _insistent now, because before, it was all shits and giggles and a few harmless gropes, but now it's turning into something much more tangible—something he can't just forget in the morning. His hesitation must be apparent through the kiss, because Draco pulls away, lips glazed with saliva and eyes glazed with desire. Harry only has to hold his gaze for a moment before he makes up his mind.

'This is probably going to hurt,' Harry tells him.

Draco raises an eyebrow and gives him a bored look. Maybe he thinks it'll cover up the blush. 'You say it like you're disappointed.'

Harry frowns at him. 'You know that's not what I meant. I don't _want _to hurt you.'

This seems to be a silly statement to make, considering that twenty minutes ago, he did very much want to hurt Draco—but not like this, not _really _hurt him, and Harry has a feeling Draco knows this, because he smirks and pulls Harry's head down by the base of his neck with one hand and whispers in his ear, 'Maybe_ I_ want you to hurt me.'

With the other hand, he grabs Harry's cock and gives it a good squeeze; it jumps in his grip.

'_Fuck_,' Harry hisses.

Draco releases his neck, and strokes his cock a few times. 'Now you're talking.'

Wands lost somewhere in the fight to rid themselves of clothing, Harry supposes that spit's about all the lubrication Draco's going to get. Draco's not complaining, but his breath hitches slightly as Harry positions himself against his arse, one hand hooked under one of Draco's knees, the other guiding himself inside, slowly, carefully—Harry gasps as Draco seizes his hip and thrusts himself back, embedding Harry's cock inside of himself with one hard thrust, teeth gritted, swallowing a grunt. Harry falls forward on his hands, leaning over him and panting, trying very hard to curb the orgasm that very nearly washes over him.

'Bloody hell,' he gasps.

'Fuck,' Draco agrees, shifting, clenching. Harry chokes down a moan.

God, it feels—Harry's mind has flown away somewhere, he thinks, because he can't even begin to describe how it feels, at least not beyond the words incredibly, sinfully good. Draco's arse is hot and unforgivably tight, and Harry has to hold himself still for a moment to collect the little bits of his brain that have gone AWOL before he can risk moving, or this might all be over far too soon.

Draco lets out a long breath; Harry's eyes open and he looks down at him, and sees he's flushing a delicious pink, and smirking. 'All right there, Potter?'

Harry pulls halfway out and thrusts back in quickly; Draco's flush deepens and he makes the strangled noise again. 'Brilliant. You?'

He thinks Draco might be laughing, but it's hard to tell, because Harry's pulling out and thrusting back in again, slowly at first, then picking up speed, and Draco's laughs get lost in gasps and grunts and the occasional moan as their hips connect, over and over again.

The bed slams into the wall in time with Harry's thrusts; Draco shifts under him, hand clawing his shoulder for leverage as he tilts his hips up for a better angle. Harry pushes into him again and feels his cock embed itself to the hilt, and moans into the curve of Draco's neck. Draco practically yelps—he thrusts back against Harry's hips and moans again, writhing, twisting under him.

He's moaning openly now; Harry's name, over and over, begging, pleading, harder, faster, _pleaseGoddon'tstop_, and Harry obliges, happily, perhaps too enthusiastically. The thudding of the bed frame against the wall is growing louder, more erratic, it's almost as if it has an echo, and there's an earth-shaking _slam_—but Harry doesn't have time to analyse it, because Draco clenches hard around his cock, arching his hips and his back, head thrown back against the mattress as he cries out and Harry slams into him hard, once, twice, before his body goes rigid and he comes inside of him, gasping his name.

In hindsight, Harry thinks he really should have analysed that slam. It only takes a heartbeat for him to take in the scene at the door to the bedroom.

Hermione was first into the room. She's covered head to toe in soot—probably from the Floo—and is gripping the door handle in one hand, a book in the other. Her eyes are so wide that they remind Harry briefly of Dobby's. Just behind her is Ron, looking as if someone has just nailed him in the back with a Freezing Charm. And God, behind them both is Snape, wearing an expression that suggests mild disgust and, at the same time, indicates that he expected no less.

There's a tense, deathly silence—the seconds tick by slowly, taking ten times longer than seconds should, until, to Harry's complete and utter horror, there's a deafening _click _and a small, gleeful voice goes, 'Wow! This'll go for _heaps_!'

Draco recovers first. He curses, rolls out from under Harry, and throws the sheets over them both. Hermione stutters, 'Oh-my-God-I'm-sorry-I-didn't-know—downstairs-in-ruins—sorry-sorry-sorry-we're-leaving!' in a single breath and attempts to close the door but fails, crashing into Ron, who's still stuck in his stupor; Colin Creevey—ducking out from behind Ron—gives Harry a huge grin and a thumbs up before disappearing back down the hall with his camera.

Hermione drags Ron from the room. He nearly falls down in the process; his mouth is working, but he can't seem to get a word out. She forgets to close the door, which is unfortunate, because Snape is still standing in the doorway, arms folded and looking extremely sour.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Snape cuts him off. 'I don't require an explanation, Mr Potter, and I must say I'd be pleased if you'd spare me the details.' His gaze shifts to Draco, who's trying without much success to be invisible. 'As for you, Mr Malfoy, I can only offer the advice that you reconsider your...' his lips twist in a sneer, '..._position _in this relationship. Good day to you.'

Harry coughs as Snape closes the door. He feels Draco collapse beside him with a moan of, 'I will never be able to look that man in the eye again.'

oOo

Downstairs, Colin's owling the _Daily Prophet _to see what sort of an offer he can get for his scandalous photograph of Harry Potter shagging another bloke. Seamus clears his throat and looks across at Zacharias, holding out a hand.

Zacharias wrinkles his nose.

Seamus says, 'Cough up, Hufflepuff.'

Scowling, Zacharias shoves a Galleon into his hand. Seamus grins and gives him an appreciative pat on the back. 'Told ya Harry'd top.'

o_ fin _o


End file.
